Pain
Isn't seen-
but felt.

Yet it
makes us see
how good
life felt,
without it.

I rake abundant leaves,  
laying as discarded litter,
covering the ground.

Do I blame the trees,
for the vast yield?

Or the winds who blow
leaves everywhere?
Leaving them anywhere
they please!  

No blame! For trees or winds.  
For life,
like leaves,
yields beyond our control.

And life is best
when I take what I find,
randomly assigned me,  
and in my mind,
receive it, as if,
it suits me,
perfectly fine!

Frigid, fierce, long white winters,
Fickle, reluctant, warm spring days,
Fleeting, frying-hot summers.
Fatal, early frosts…
Familiar seasons that
Form us as
Saskatchewan
Prairie people.

did you see the dog outside the bar the night we met.? she was tied to the parking meter pole. a huge puppy and all she kept doing was licking my hand. Snowflake. she was huge and white and it was the night of the blizzard. sweet and beautiful Snowflake, and then gone. isn't that the way of all beautiful things? but not gone if we hold the moment, it has to be held with the heart. that's the only way....Snowflake dead....COLD
BLOODED MOON
...

If he were a bird, I would let him perch  
On my shoulder, right next to my ear;      
His downy feathers would caress my face,
And his songs only I would hear

If he were a frog, I would hold him close --
And shelter him in my pocket;
Or, wrapped in ribbons,  he might feel at ease
Worn near my heart, like a locket

If he were a bee buzzing 'round my head,
I'd let him make a nest in my hair;
And in evening's hush he'd rest on my lips  
And leave honey-filled kisses there

In a jovial way,  I'm saying Love is blind
To the diversities dealt by Fate;
Our mortal frames are inconsequential ---
True love recognizes its mate

So much green tea

Leaves a mark

On the old oak tree
In the courtyard

eyes on the pavement,
the tiny architectects
of sky bound prayers.

the children draw dreams
with chalk-stained hands
on the cracked concrete,
flowers, and sky bound birds,
and home and stars and rainbows.

a shimmer of light on stone.

will the chalk bleed before the bloom?